


A Shadow From The Past

by Avourellion



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: 25th Anniversary mask/makeup design, Everyone was ignoring his notes so he starts complaining to her, F/M, Finally a oneshot that didn't get away from me, First Meetings, Gen, He also lowkey kills someone for her, Madame Giry is a badass queen and we love her, Notes, Pre-Canon, She and Erik are awkward friends, She's kinda his exasperated mother figure, mentioned past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28424571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avourellion/pseuds/Avourellion
Summary: Madame Giry believes in the Opera Ghost. How could she not? After all, she's one of the few who has truly seen him. Unlike the others, though, she refuses to allow her fear of him to overrule her good common sense.When the Populaire is thrown into chaos by the death of the Phantom's first victim there - but certainly not the last - Madame Giry finally seeks him out herself, and is astonished by who she finds.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Madame Giry, Madame Giry & Meg Giry
Kudos: 9





	A Shadow From The Past

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, to my beloved beta Gabs, a friend I ran many ideas for this fic past. I couldn't have done it without your wonderful suggestions and help!
> 
> Also, thank you to Holmes12, for listening to my rants and for smacking me with your books whenever I started complaining about how bad my writing is and quite literally screaming at me when I deleted half of this because I didn't like it. PS, I added it all back in for you.
> 
> A warning: this fic does feature alcohol-driven domestic abuse, because Madame Giry's husband is an ass.
> 
> Canonically, she knew him before he came to the Populaire, she knows where he lives, she delivers his notes, she defends him against Raoul's plan to kill him. Conclusion? Madame Giry is Erik's exasperated babysitter/mother figure and sits around with the Daroga, drinking tea and gossiping about the latest shit Erik has done.

The opera ghost really did exist, and Madame Giry had seen him three times now.

The first time, she’d been with a group who had discovered the key to several long shut-up storage rooms. They’d fanned out to search through the old props and costumes and backdrops carefully rolled up and shut away. It had been confirmed that there were no other ways in and out of the storage rooms, and that the lock hadn’t been touched in years, but somehow, he was in there anyway.

Madame Giry had only caught the slightest glimpse of him. The only thing she’d been able to make out clearly was an unnaturally white face and eyes that seemed to glow, meeting hers before he vanished in a swirl of black fabric. When she’d gotten to the spot he’d been standing, there was no trace of him left.

The second time, she’d been sitting in Box Fourteen, watching a play a week after opening the old storage rooms and seeing the ghost. She wasn’t sure what had drawn her gaze to the boxes across from her, but when she’d studied them, he had been there, sitting in Box Five.

This time, he did not flee the second she saw him. It was then that she realized his face was not ghostly white. Rather, he wore a simple mask across half his face, not dissimilar to those worn by attendees of a masquerade, though his was far less ostentatious. He inclined his head respectively, acknowledging her gaze, before returning his attention to the play. When she’d glanced at the box again, it was empty. Exploring Box Five after the performance was over left her with no more leads than she’d found in the storage room.

She did not speak of either incident to anyone else; not her dancer daughter, not the stage managers, not the owners of the Populaire.

If asked, Madame Giry could not have said what she was seeing. Was he truly an undead spectre, as the chorus girls gossiped? Was he simply an elusive patron of the opera house? Had she even seen anything at all, or were the rumors and whispers about the Opera Ghost finally getting to her and playing tricks on her mind?

He certainly wasn’t the flaming death’s-head some had described, nor a walking, rotting corpse. No, he appeared to be nothing more than a mysterious, masked man, but working in a theatre, Madame Giry knew better than anyone how deceptive appearances could be. Whatever he was, he was no mere man.

There were no more appearances by the Opera Ghost for three months after that. Not to Madame Giry, not to anyone else. The stagehands whispered that he’d finally left them alone. The strange… incidents stopped. No more falling backdrops, no more furniture in places it shouldn’t be. No more strange music echoing from the empty pit, no people ending up in distant halls and rooms with no recollection of how they came to be there.

She knew better. The Opera Ghost had not left them. She still felt his presence. The sensation of burning eyes watching her back, the shivers down her spine as she stood in what appeared to be an empty theatre. No, the ghost was still very much there, following her around, watching her, though she never saw him. She knew she would never see him, not unless he chose to let her.

The third time she saw him, he killed someone.

Though technically still married, Madame Giry hadn't seen her husband in nearly four years now and hadn't worn her ring for far longer. The man had abandoned her and their daughter Meg, and she couldn't say she missed him. The man had been kind and loving when they'd first met, but he'd rapidly deteriorated into a gambling, drinking, abusive mess. She wasn't sure why she'd stuck with him for so long. Perhaps some part of her still loved him and still wanted him back, no matter how cruel he got. Perhaps another part of her had done it for Meg, thinking that even a horrible father was better than none at all.

Even so, he was the last person she expected to run into at the Populaire. 

A show had just finished and the audience was beginning to file out of the theatre. There had been no one visible in Box Five this time, though she couldn't say she expected him to be there. One time did not make a pattern.

Even so, Madame Giry had gone to the box during the final act anyway, drawn by a strange curiosity, when he had come out of the next box down.

She saw her husband before he noticed her, and instinct made her shrink back into the open doorway of Box Five, hiding from his angry hands.

A moment later, shame rose in her. _This is your land,_ she told herself. _You are in charge here, you hold the power. Do not fear him here._

He stood in the crowded hallway for a moment, then ducked back into the box he'd come from, pulling something from his pocket. Madame Giry smoothed the front of her black dress and followed him, her cane grasped firmly in her hand.

Strictly speaking, she didn't need it, but it was a dramatic accent and commanded respect. Among the dance girls, the crack of the polished wood against the floor had long ago become a feared noise. It held even greater power over those not used to it.

 _You hold the power now,_ she repeated to herself. _You are a woman now, a mother, not a foolish, lovesick girl._

Madame Giry stopped in the doorway to the other box, raised the cane, and let it fall back to the floor. It let out a sharp, hard crack. 

Her husband jumped at the sound and turned. He had a small bottle halfway to his lips and wore an expression of shame at being caught drinking.

"I did not expect to see you here," she said coldly. 

He spread his hands, his face spreading into a sloppy grin. Already drunk. 

"Ahhh, but it's good to see you," he slurred. "I hear you run quite- quite- quite a... show round here."

She gestured to his bottle. "I hope you realize that we can and will deal most harshly with anyone who causes trouble here."

His grin vanished in an instant and he surged toward her, arms outstretched, moving to hit her or pin her to the wall. She shoved her cane up in his path, stopping him.

"You think I'm causing- causin' trouble? I'll show you what trouble is, then!"

He spat the words in her face, and it took every inch of her iron will not to flinch away.

_You hold the power here. He cannot hit you, he cannot hurt you._

"If you do not contain yourself, I will have you removed," she warned. 

"Is that a threat? You threatening me, woman?" he spat.

"Not at all, Monsieur," she said, the words harsh and cold. She did not speak to him as one would speak to her husband, because that was not who she saw him as. He was simply a drunk patron of the Populaire, and she would treat him as such. "It is simply a warning. After all, I know you certainly wouldn't cause a scene and disrupt the other patrons."

He went red in the face, but her words seemed to cut through his drunken haze. "I suppose not," he muttered. "Does my girl still perform?"

"She is my daughter, not yours." Madame Giry snapped, allowing her calm mask to slip for a moment before it settled over her features again. Good god, she was a woman of fifty, mature and stately and unflappable, and with a few words, this man, this abuser, who she was still so scared of, managed to get under her skin. 

It was a struggle not to flinch away as his hands curled into fists at his sides. 

"She is no longer your daughter, and whether she performed tonight is not important," she continued before he could say anything. "I advise you not to seek her out. Again, this is not a threat, simply a word of advice."

"You'll regret keeping me from my girl, woman!" he snarled, raising a hand. Before she could flinch, before she could lift her cane to protect herself, her cheek exploded with pain and her head snapped to the side. 

Only years and years of training allowed her to keep her composure. She could already feel her cheek swelling and turning red. 

"Come with me," she hissed. She spoke in her rarely-used stage voice: icy and clipped and full of iron and leaving absolutely no room for argument or thought of disobedience. "It is time for you to leave." 

She gestured to the door with her cane, her bony hands trembling with fury. He looked cowed, instantly doing as he was told. 

Her skin felt like it was crawling the entire walk down to the main lobby. She marched directly behind him like a soldier escorting a convict to prison, occasionally taking his shoulder in a firm grip to pull him onward whenever he faltered. 

They stopped at the base of the grand staircase, facing the doors leading to the busy streets outside. 

"Why?" she asked quietly. "Four years without a word from you, and then you turn up out of the blue. Why?"

He spread his hands. "Maybe I just wanted to watch a play."

Madame Giry watched him turn and leave, her skin prickling with unease.

Later, she wandered the back hallways of the dressing rooms. She could tell _he_ there too, feeling his gaze on her back. His presence felt odd and unnerving, but at the same time, strangely familiar. She wouldn't go so far as to call the Phantom comforting, but there was something reassuring about knowing he was there, after the sudden appearance of her husband. 

She didn't bother searching for the Phantom as she used to, but her eyes did linger longer on each patch of shadow than they usually did, trying to make out the shape of a white mask within them. Of course, she never saw him, but he was most certainly watching her.

Meg shared her dressing room with a new girl who’d recently come to the theatre, the daughter of a late violin master. The girl was the same age as Meg, and they’d instantly seemed to connect. Madame Giry was proud of her daughter. For all of Meg’s peppy energy, she hadn't seemed particularly close to any of the other dance girls until Christine Daaé had arrived several years ago.

Their dressing room was at the far end of the hallway. Originally, Madame Giry had wanted to get the new girl her own room, but their ensemble was larger than it had ever been, and there hadn't been enough space. Once they wrapped up their current production and were able to dismiss all of the people they'd hired for it, Christine could finally get her own.

Meg wasn't alone in the room when Madame Giry arrived, but the other person wasn't Christine. 

"You," she hissed, trying to rein in her temper. "I thought I told you to leave. How dare you come back here!"

Meg and her husband both jerked up at the sound of her voice. The girl had retreated into the corner, arms wrapped tightly around herself to try to shield against her father's drunken wrath.

Madame Giry caught Meg's eye and the girl gave a shaky nod. She was scared but unharmed. 

"I think you ought to leave, and leave for good this time," Madame Giry warned him. "Please. I have already removed you once. I shan't be so kind next time."

His eyes flashed with anger, amplified by all the alcohol he'd consumed. "You _bitch,"_ he said, spit flying from his mouth. "How dare you try- try ta' kick me out!"

"Please, monseiur. You're drunk. Let's go outside and try to talk about this calmly."

"Calmly!" he roared. "I _am_ calm!"

"There's no need to shout," she said cautiously. "Please, come with me, and we can do this away from Meg."

"Meg!" He spat the girl's name. "Always Meg, isn't it? You never cared about me, never. Just your precious little baby."

He grabbed Meg by her hair, twisting cruelly and jerking her towards him. She let out a small yelp of pain. "You won't keep my daughter away from me any longer, woman!" he shouted, giving another yank.

Madame Giry could take his blows and abuse herself, but not when it was delivered upon her daughter. She _snapped._

"You will keep your hands off of her," she hissed and raised her cane. She'd never used it to strike anyone, she'd refused to stoop to the level of physical abuse after what she'd endured, but still-

She slammed it across his stomach, and he collapsed, gasping. Meg ripped her hair out of his grasp and flung herself to the opposite side of the room, her eyes shining with tears of pain.

Madame Giry knelt beside the fallen man and shoved the tip of her cane into his chest. "No one touches my daughter, you miserable bastard." She grabbed his arm and dragged him to his feet with a strength that surprised herself. "Get out. Get out now, while you can still walk, because I promise you I won't leave you able to walk on your own feet the next time our paths cross."

She shoved him across the room and out the door. He tripped on the threshold and fell. After a moment, he reached for her, as though expecting her to help him back up. Madame Giry regarded him coldly, then _spat_ down upon him, then slammed the door.

Meg threw herself into her mother's arms, finally giving into silent, shaking tears. Madame Giry stroked the girl's hair, holding her tightly.

"Oh, my dear," she whispered. "My darling Meg. I'm so sorry."

And they sat there, an awkward mess on the floor with their arms around together, finally able to take comfort in knowing the other was there and safe.

She wasn't sure how long they sat together before there was a piercing scream from backstage. Meg drew away from Madame Giry and looked to the closed door, eyes wide.

"Mother-" the girl began. Madame Giry was already on her feet, pulling the door open and dashing away after the sound. Meg followed, close on her heels.

One of the chorus girls was on her knees next to a massive dresser on wheels, staring up into the rafters. Something large was suspended from the catwalks above the stage.

 _What is that-_ Her hands flew to her mouth. Behind her, Meg let out a small, strangled scream, then turned away. A moment later, there was the sound of her retching.

_Dear god above._

A dead body was hanging from the catwalks, slowly revolving, suspended from a noose around his neck. It was clearly no accident. No, it looked like someone lurking above had caught him in the lasso as he passed by, then hauled him up into the air. The man's neck was twisted at a sickening angle.

Other people were rapidly gathering below, screaming and pointing and shouting in loud voices.

Then the corpse rotated around enough to face her again, and Madame Giry stumbled back a step. It was him. The dead man was her husband. 

She glanced back, wildly searching for Meg. The girl was kneeling in a corner, facing away from the hanging body. If Madame Giry hadn't realized who the man was when they first walked in, it was unlikely Meg had either. _Good. She shouldn't have to deal with the guilt and that burden just now._

A bit of motion from far above, much higher than the hanging body, caught her gaze, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness before she could make the scene out.

The Phantom perched on the catwalks, his cloak billowing around him like the wings of some dreadful bat or bird. He loomed over the scene below, a terrible omen of death. No one in the growing crowd noticed him.

He raised a hand slowly, pointing directly at her, and _winked,_ of all things. Then he rose to his feet and strode away down the catwalks. This time Madame Giry was able to watch him go. He didn't vanish in the blink of an eye like the previous occasions. 

Madame Giry turned to study the dangling body of her husband. His face had turned purple and swollen and nearly unrecognizable, his eyes open and glazed.

She figured she ought to feel something, some sort of pity or disgust at his death, but she felt nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

Nearly a month later, Madame Giry had retreated to her office after a rehearsal. Meg had run off with Christine, and the two girls were playing and talking together somewhere in the many back halls of the theatre.

She'd spent the entire time trying to sort out her emotions. The Phantom had _killed_ someone, strangled and murdered him. But the man he had killed was the very same man who had abused and hurt and tormented Madame Giry and Meg for so many years, led them both to live in fear of his drunken rages, so could perhaps, just this once, such a murder be justified?

Several of the other members of the staff had warned her against letting the girls run around together. Madame Giry had responded by telling them that the girls were both fourteen and perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. Meg had been running around the Populaire on her own since she was old enough to walk, after all. She’d grown up in the theatre, and could keep Christine from getting lost.

 _But the ghost!_ they said to her. _He will take them away to his dark palace in the realm of the dead and you shall never see them again!_ Madame Giry had scoffed at them and told them to let go of their superstitions. She believed in the Opera Ghost herself, but she also did not think that the girls would be in danger from him. Beware the ghost, be cautious and careful, she told Meg and Christine, but do not let your fear override your common sense.

A stack of papers had been delivered to her desk at some point during the day. A look at the top sheet revealed them to be a record of the theatre’s finances and expenses from the past several months. While Madame Giry was supposed to be simply the dancing instructor and managed the technical aspects of the chorus, she found herself doing paperwork and handling legal work more and more often recently. The managers of the Populaire were getting lax and lazy, and she was having to pick up their slack to keep the theatre running smoothly.

She moved the stack of papers to the corner of the desk and moved to pick up a journal instead. At the end of each day, she would write down how each rehearsal went, recording what was worked on, what needed more practice, and anything else of significance. Included on three long-ago pages were her accounts of each time she’d seen the Opera Ghost - or the Phantom, as she’d taken to calling him. It seemed a more fitting term for what she’d seen.

A worn red ribbon marked her most recent page. She used it to flip the page open to the next blank spot. A piece of paper slipped out from between the pages, fluttering to the floor.

Eyes narrowing, she bent down to retrieve the paper. It was a large sheet, folded shut into an envelope shape and sealed with an unmarked piece of wax.

A feeling of dread settled in the pit of Madame Giry’s stomach, though she couldn’t be sure why. She slid a nail under the wax seal and cracked it off to unfold the letter.  
The words within were written in the same half-elegant cursive, half unreadable scrawl that was entirely unique to musicians and composers. It was a thoroughly peculiar script, though in her many years at the Populaire, Madame Giry had grown accustomed to reading it.

There was no name at the top of the letter, though it could be intended for no one but her.

_It is an honor to make your acquaintance, madame. Please forgive me for my lack of courtesy in not extending my greetings earlier._

_I must congratulate you on your recent success in the production of Orpheus and Eurydice. I understand you were responsible for the excellent ballet in act two. I must say, I was impressed._

_On that note, would you be so kind as to pass a message on to your superiors? They must replace the fourth violin, a man by the name of Pierre Jacquard. He has been spending far too much time in bars before coming to rehearsals each day, and in his bad judgment, he is delivering far too much unwanted and inappropriate attention upon your chorus girls, and I refuse to have that in my theatre. I admit I may be wrong in calling this his drunken error, though. Perhaps it is simply that the man is simply a misogynist and a bastard even when he is sober. I am letting you know this so that, if you so wish, you may sack him without fanfare or undue attention to the issue. If you do not resolve this problem promptly, I will take matters into my own hands._

_I should also hope that you do not harbor too much resentment toward me for what I have done. I shall make no secret of it- I only needed to see that man for the short time that I did to tell he was a pig and a bastard. Forgive my words, but he had it long coming to him. I ask you not to mourn him overmuch. The man is not worth your pity, and I spit upon his corpse and his memory. I do not expect you to thank me, but in time, you will see that what I did was for the greater good. He was a danger to you and your daughter both, and you no longer need fear him._

_Once more, I thank you for your dedication to the Opera Populaire itself. I should hope that you will continue, and that we might someday work together to better this place that we both love so deeply._

_Your friend and servant,_  
_O. G._

Opera Ghost. The Phantom.

Madame Giry’s hands were trembling as she lowered the letter back to her desk. “Dear god, woman, what on earth has gotten into you?” she whispered to herself, clasping her hands together to stop the shaking.

Who was this man and what was he thinking, calling the Populaire his theatre? How dare he deliver orders through these letters? How dare he try to justify murder, no matter how foul the victim might have been.

She shoved it in her pocket and snatched her cane, coming to a sudden, impulsive decision. Her shoes clacked loudly against the floor as she walked. The theatre hall was empty when she entered, no one on the stage, nor busy in the curtains. She mounted the stairs and stopped in the center of the stage

“I have your note,” she called, pacing in circles around the stage, the letter held above her head.

“Opera Ghost, is that really what you call yourself? I know you’re here, you must be. Talk to me!”

If anyone happened to walk into the empty theatre at that moment, Madame Giry knew she would have appeared quite mad, standing there, shouting at a ghost, but she was not to be deterred.

“Come out, ghost! Is that truly what you are? A haunting phantom? A fiery spectre? Or are you just a man?”

Cold, sensual laughter echoed throughout the massive room at her final words, bouncing around the domed roof and across the stage.

“A ghost, madame, the Phantom of the Opera. Is that not what you call me?”

The voice of the Opera Ghost seemed to come from everywhere at once, unnaturally loud and lyrical. Even spoken, the words held a strangely melodic tone, as though he was bordering on song.

A chill ran down her back, and Madame Giry slowly lowered the letter, clutching it to her chest.

“Come out, then, Phantom, so that I might speak with you.”

“Are we not speaking now?” These words were different. They did not echo or spread throughout the room - they came from right behind her.

Madame Giry whirled around, and there he stood, half-concealed by the shadow of the massive curtain.

“So you do exist.”

He spread his hands. “It would seem that I do.”

He stood cloaked in darkness, his face half-obscured by a wide-brimmed hat dipping low in front of him. Madame Giry could only make out the vaguest outline of the mask she'd seen on him earlier. 

"Why did you do it?" she called.

"Do what, Madame? If you're referring to the curtains falling, I can hardly be blamed for the shortcomings of your stagehands."

"Don't play a fool," she snapped. "You killed a man."

"A bastard and an ass who deserved it, as I told you in my letter," he said lightly, the tone almost joking. It served only to infuriate her further. 

"Deserved it?" she snapped. "Who are you to decide who deserves to live and who deserves to die? How can you play at being judge, jury, and executioner?

An odd expression crossed the visible half of his face. She would have called it pity, or even sorrow, but she knew a deranged murderer and a madman wasn't capable of such emotions. "I am not the only one to try to control and decide the fates of others. You should know- or have you forgotten me already?" His calm, light voice twisted and became bitter and terrible. "No, don't bother with excuses. I don't imagine you would. I was simply a passing bit of entertainment and you were still a young girl."

A memory exploded in her mind, striking her with such force she actually stumbled back a step.

_She had been all of nineteen at the time. A traveling circus had come through the city with a gypsy wagon. They'd had a small freakshow with them, set up within a barred wagon. A small boy who couldn't have been older than eight or nine years old, chained in an upright coffin. He'd been naked and freakishly thin, every bone showing, like a walking, living skeleton. A carved wooden mask in a crude skull had been covering his face._

_And he'd sung. Oh, how his music had felt! Despite being an opera singer and dancer herself at the time, she'd never heard such a moving, beautiful, glorious song! It was shocking that such a sound could come from such a small body, but it had been him. A crowd gathered as the boy had sung, but she'd ignored them, pushing her way up to the bars._

_Then a man had entered the wagon and bowed, grinning stupidly, like he was the one that had sung and not the boy._

Behold, the living corpse! _the man had called._ An angel, fallen from the heavens to sing for us. _He'd pulled a key from a pocket and opened the lock on the iron bands around the boy's mask, then ripped it off of his face._

_That was when the screaming began. The audience that had only moments ago been entranced by the boy's voice now screamed and shoved and jeered, throwing the treats they'd bought at him through the bars, some stooping to grab small rocks and stones to hurl. The boy didn't even try to resist. He didn't twist or try to cover himself with his bound hands. He'd just lain there and taken the abuse without the slightest sign of resistance. His only reaction came when one of the rocks hit his ribcage and split his skin, blood dripping over his scarred, sunken stomach._

_But the worst part had been the boy's face. He raised his head and slowly met her eyes. She, the only person not hurling abuse. Oh, she'd never seen such a terrible sight. Half his face was a ruined nightmare. His nose was only half-formed, more like the slits of a skull than a living human's. His lips were red and puffy and swollen, and his skin was yellow and pale and stretched too thinly over his features. His right cheek was a misshapen wasteland of ridges and scars, like the flesh and tendons underneath had developed in unnatural clumps rather than evenly spread out. Stretching from his temple back over the side of his head, it seemed as though the flesh simply hadn't grown over a patch of shining, exposed white skull. The skin around the edges was flaking and crusted with dried blood, like the skin was drying out and cracking._

_And his eyes! They were yellow and gold and orange all at the same time, piercing and glowing and terrifying and terrible. They held a fury and passion far beyond his young age. It was said that the eyes were the window to the soul, and this boy's spirit was certainly not broken, not as his actions would suggest. They held a dreadful promise of vengeance in them, and she suddenly felt cold and filled with dread. She'd dipped her head to him, never breaking his gaze, and he'd given her the slightest of nods back._

"The circus," Madame Giry breathed, dragging herself out of the memory. Yes, now that she was close to the Phantom, at last, she could make out the corners of his swollen lips under his mask, and she recognized those terrible burning eyes. How had she missed them before? "The freakshow."

Something changed in his posture. While she'd been wary of him before - she would be a fool not to have been cautious - there was suddenly a dangerous, tense charge in the room, and she realized she'd dreadfully misspoken.

"I would prefer if you did not use that term," the Phantom said quietly. Somehow, this soft, cool voice was even more terrifying than he would be if he shouted and raged. "We are different than you, yes, but we are only _freaks_ because that is what the world has turned us into."

The Phantom froze then, tipping his head to one side. Whatever he was listening to, Madame Giry couldn’t make it out. “It would seem our short time is now up, Madame. I look forward to our… acquaintance.”

He bowed, then was gone. It was as though the Phantom had vanished into thin air- one moment he was there, then the next he was not.

Seconds later, the main entrance into the theatre was flung open, and the current manager of the opera house strode down the aisle.

“Ah, Madame Giry. There you are, we’ve been looking for you.”

She cast a look at the spot the Phantom had just vanished from, then crossed her arms behind her back, concealing his letter. 

"What do you need me to do?" she said absently, casting a glance back at the stage.

It was several hours before she was able to slip away from the managers and return to her office, intending to pen a note to the Phantom, but no words came.

In the end, she stared at the blank piece of paper for several long moments before finally picking up a pen. Upon the page, she wrote two words, then folded it in half, placed it on her desk, and left. She made sure the windows and the doors were locked on her way out, but she knew those obstacles wouldn't amount to much against the Phantom.

The next morning, the note was gone. The room was still locked, nothing else touched, but the letter had vanished.

* * *

Deep below Madame Giry's office, in a house on a lake under the Populaire, a lonely figure was humming a melody from a performance several nights before.

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, sat at his organ and slowly unfolded the note he'd retrieved from Madame Giry's office the night before, not breaking off his humming. Two words were written on the page in an elegant, neat print.

_Thank you._

Erik folded the note again and placed it on the flat top of the organ, beside his mask.

He smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone gets mad at me for using the word Gypsy (which yes, I'm fully aware is a slur/offensive term), it is used to refer to the traveling players that Erik was with in Susan Kay's Phantom, so that's what I'm calling it.
> 
> We're ignoring the part in the 2004 movie where she helps him escape the traveling circus.
> 
> I was actually rereading through this to make sure it was all good before I published it, and I realized the scene in the dressing room is actually pretty similar to the final scene in Love Never Dies (Madame Giry/Erik trying to talk to and calm her husband/Meg in order to defend Meg/Christine, then misspeaking and having her husband/Meg go off and lose it) and honestly that wasn't entirely intentional, but it turned out pretty cool anyway.
> 
> Go say hi to me on tumblr @orestes-hungry-and-pylades-sober and drop a prompt or suggestion, I'd love to get them and write stuff for you guys
> 
> Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos. I'd like to say that this isn't simply asking for comments or responses on this work, but for all works by all authors in general, not just my own. I know that so many people get discouraged by lack of response to their work, because when you can only give kudos once (especially on a multi-chaptered fic), it's hard to tell if you're still getting readers. Even just a sentence, just a few words, will make any author's day. So please, consider leaving a bit of feedback on the next story you read after you click away from this one. You'd be surprised at just how far a tiny bit of encouragement goes.


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